


The Glittering Caves of Aglarond

by Grundy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aglarond, Dwarves, Fourth Age, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 15:50:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20726774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: In the early years of the Fourth Age, Dwalin and Glóin make their first - and possibly last - visit to Gimli's new realm.





	The Glittering Caves of Aglarond

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bunn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/gifts).

> Inspired by Bunn's lovely art of [Dwalin and Glóin in the Glittering Caves](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/bunn/5531459/787980/787980_900.jpg).

“You’re looking very nostalgic,” Dwalin observed with some amusement as they got under way.

“I suppose I am,” Gloin answered. “I was comparing this to the last time we set out on a journey together.

Dwalin laughed.

“Seeing as the last time was from an inn in Hobbiton, on a string of ponies picked up here and there so as not to be obvious what we were about, with long odds and little real hope of success, I should say it makes for quite a contrast!”

It was true. While their elder cousins had come directly from the Blue Mountains with the king, Glóin and his brother hadn’t joined up with the rest of Thorin’s company until Hobbiton. They had been less of a last-minute addition to the party than Bilbo, of course, but they were still the last of the dwarves to join.

They had been prospecting to the south when Thorin made the decision to proceed with what his sister had termed ‘his wild venture’, and had gotten word from Dís only just in time. There had also been some danger that one of them would be sent back, thirteen being such a very unlucky number. But then Thorin had chanced to meet Tharkûn in an inn, and that had changed everything.

Dis had raged at them afterwards, of course, all four of them. Even Dáin Ironfoot had come in for his share of her anger. “What if you’d gotten yourselves killed, too? Were you idiots _trying_ to wipe out the line of Durin? Did it not occur to you that at least _one_ of the young ones should have been made to stay in that blasted mountain when you all decided it would be a fine thing to have a battle? You’ve only the Maker to thank that young Thorin wasn’t killed as well!”

Dain had emerged from the tongue-lashing looking rather thoughtful, perhaps more shaken than he let on at her point that he could easily have lost his only child. Dís at least had one left to her. But she had been reluctant to remain in the restored Kingdom Under the Mountain after the interment of her sons, claiming as the youngest child she lacked the fond memories of it her brothers had both carried.

As far as she was concerned, Thorin’s halls in the Blue Mountains were her home and her daughter’s inheritance. It had taken considerable persuasion from Dain to secure her agreement to stay and join his council. (That Frerís was of an age with young Thorin and the pair of them could potentially reunite the senior lines of the House of Durin was no small consideration, but Dis had driven a hard bargain all the same. That boded well for what the young princes of the Mountain were learning under their grandmother’s tutelage.)

But Dwalin was right – the contrast between now and then was glaring.

The ponies alone were difference enough. Their current mounts were the finest the Mountain had to offer, outfitted in a style second to none, for Gimli wasn’t the only one keen to show off. After his father’s investiture as King Under the Mountain, young Thorin had made establishing royal stables a priority, and was happy to have the chance to let his cousin (and the rest of the world) admire the results of his efforts. It would serve to quiet any remaining mutterings that such a project was too new-fangled or that it was un-dwarven to keep animals.

Thorin felt that since dwarves now travelled fairly regularly between their realms – the Iron Hills, the Mountain, the halls remaining in the Blue Mountains, not to mention the kingdoms of the Ironfists and Stiffbeards in the East, it was better to have stables of their own, so that they could be assured any messenger of the King Under the Mountain would travel appropriately and without relying on others. At first Thorin had needed the assistance of Men from Dale and further afield, but gradually he and and his handpicked team had learned enough to manage without Men. To quiet the older and more traditional among his people, he had made quite clear, however, that Dwarves would continue to fight as they always had – on their own two feet. There would be no mounted warriors in their ranks.

“Indeed,” Glóin agreed. “Here we are, travelling with an honor guard as befits elder kinsmen of the King Under the Mountain, on roads safe enough to not actually need said guard, with our younger kin.”

“More than that,” Dwalin added with some satisfaction, “we are travelling from one dwarven realm to another, with every expectation that all will go smoothly and we will be received at journey’s end!”

“Yes,” Glóin nodded. “There is that as well.”

His grandsons were part of the party travelling to Gimli’s Glittering Caves. Farís hadn’t been thrilled at the idea of letting her sons out of her sight before they were of age, but she couldn’t very well overlook that Óin and Balin were her brother’s heirs. One or both would certainly move to Aglarond once they were old enough, so it was only sense for them to visit their future home. But whatever her reservations, ‘safety’ hadn’t been among them.

Dwarves of any age had little fear abroad in Eriador now. The Mannish and Elven kings were doing a fine job of keeping the peace. There were no bandits on the roads or trolls lurking near them; the old Forest Road was once again clear and well-travelled. For any who preferred to avoid boats – and Dwalin and Glóin were certainly among them – the new road down the Vale of Anduin linked Rohan to the road which crossed the mountains between Rivendell and the Forest Road. Travellers were safe and trade was better than Glóin had ever known it now that sending goods over distances wasn’t such a risky business as it had been in the old days.

His grandsons had been thrilled at the prospect of visiting the newest dwarven realm. No one called it a kingdom just yet, but Glóin had his hopes. After all, stranger things had happened. In a world where hobbits not only dealt with dragons but destroyed Rings of Power, anything was possible.

\---

The days on the road passed quickly, and in far more comfort than the journey from Rivendell to the Mountain had in the old days. The comparison was all but impossible to avoid, since being on the road made the boys pester for stories of the Quest. Inevitably, they were most enthusiastic about those parts that had been the most uncomfortable at the time. The barrels were a particular favorite (It was hard to say whose discomfort amused them more, Dwalin and Glóin’s, or King Thranduil’s.)

By the time they drew near to Aglarond, young Balin and Óin were barely able to sit their saddles from sheer excitement.

“I doubt they’ll sleep at all tonight,” Glóin muttered to Balin as they made camp.

The morning would be but a short ride to bring them to Gimli’s gates. Earlier in the day, they had met a party of Rohirrim riding for Edoras who assured them they were eagerly looked for.

“They’re not the only ones,” Dwalin snorted. “Or did you think I hadn’t noticed you getting worked up as well? Anyone would think you were the one who had something to prove here.”

“My boy has nothing to prove!” Glóin retorted immediately. “He was one of the Nine Walkers, and present at the Fall of Sauron. Anyone who thinks he has something to prove needs their head examined.”

“So just you and the boy, then,” Dwalin observed drily. “You can glare at me all you like, I have eyes and ears, and despite my advanced age, they still work! He’s trying to prove to you if to no one else that it doesn’t matter that he ended up an elf-friend and won’t marry. What _you_ think he needs to prove is beyond me, but you wouldn’t be in such a state if you didn’t.”

Dwalin paused.

“Unless it’s not so much him as us you think need to prove something.”

Glóin sighed. The danger of clever older cousins were that they put their finger on the things nagging at you as often as not.

“I suppose I would like the line of Borin to have something to show for itself besides just tagging along with the line of Dain,” he admitted. “It would be nice to have a place that’s _ours_, not to mention an achievement that’s properly dwarvish.”

By which, he meant nothing to do with the affair of the Ring. That had of course been a fine thing, and Gimli had acquitted himself very well as the representative of the Dwarves. But that wasn’t quite the same as building something with your own hands. What’s more, it rankled a bit that his son’s finest known work to date had been for Men, in Minas Tirith.

Dwalin nodded.

“There’s something to that,” he said thoughtfully. “Khazad-dum was a good idea, but one that was before its time. Though knowing what we do now, I sometimes wonder if it wasn’t an idea that came from the Enemy. Balin certainly couldn’t get it out of his mind, nor Óin either. I suppose it’s just as well that you and I were the younger sons, or it might have been us.”

“I meant nothing against Balin, of course,” Glóin hastened to add.

“No, I understand quite well what you meant,” Dwalin replied. “But to speak of one puts me in mind of the other. I suspect we all would like to see Khazad-dum restored to glory, now that we’ve made the Mountain prosper. I can’t say I expect it will taken again in my lifetime, though I do know it’s on young Thorin’s mind.”

“It’s a wonder young Thorin has time to sleep for all that’s on his mind,” Glóin grumbled. “As well he has Frerís to keep him sensible.”

“One does have to wonder if she isn’t the actual King Under the Mountain,” Dwalin laughed. “It would certainly explain how young Thorin finds the time for all he manages to take an interest in!”

Dáin’s son had long had a finger in nearly every figurative pie of note in the Kingdom, even before he acceded to the throne. How he found the time now that he was King was a question that bemused every last one of his councillors.

“You may have hit on the truth of it,” Glóin marveled. “Now that you say it, I wonder only that I didn’t see it sooner.”

“Ah, but you wouldn’t have. There are some advantages to being of such an advanced age that everyone assumes you’ll pop your clogs at any moment,” Dwalin said mischeivously.

“You’re not that old,” Glóin snorted. “And may I remind you I’m only ten years younger than you, and not quite ready to think of myself as decrepit just yet!”

“I’ll be two hundred fifty-eight Wednesday next,” Dwalin replied seriously. “And given that we seem fated to be the last two of the thirteen – the last of the fourteen or even the fifteen, I might add! – I see no point to beating around the bush about it.”

That was a detail Glóin preferred not to think on.

Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli had fallen at the Battle of Five Armies. Balin, Óin, and Ori met their ends in Moria. Nori and Bifur had been killed in the Ring War.

Good old Bombur had died not long after Bilbo and Gandalf had gone over the Sea, of what he’d quite cheerfully described as ‘too much meat and mead’, immensely proud (albeit also slightly surprised) that he’d lived long enough to see the new Age.

Dori had fallen victim to an explosive accident in the forges the previous year which had claimed several dozen lives. (The result of carelessness on the part of an arrogant young apprentice, the incident would likely be a cautionary tale told to younger dwarves for some years to come.)

Poor Bofur, despite being some years younger than Glóin, was in bad health and unlikely to see another spring. He had regretted being too ill to travel to the newest dwarven realm, he’d said – but he found it a comfort to know it was there and prospering, and had sent his greetings to the Lord of Aglarond.

Glóin had never expected to be among the last standing from Thorin Oakenshield’s quest. The idea didn’t sit comfortably with him now that Dwalin had voiced it – particularly not when his cousin was the elder.

“Just so long as you don’t pop your clogs on this trip,” he said finally, trying to play it off with a joke.

“Oh, I don’t think it’s as imminent as that,” Dwalin replied cheerfully. “I feel hale and hearty enough to go on another quest.”

“Better you than me,” Gloin said, shaking his head. “I remember our adventure well enough – particularly after all these retellings around the fire every evening – to not be in a hurry for another.”

\---

The morning dawned crisp and bright, with every promise that the day would be fair.

For once, they didn’t have to chivvy the youngsters about clearing the camp and packing up. Óin and Balin were far too eager to see their uncle – and their future home. From what Glóin had heard, both lads were now speaking as though they planned to relocate when Óin came of age. Sooner, if they could persuade their mother.

That gave Glóin the spark of an idea, but he decided to let it keep for a bit before he spoke of it.

The ride to Aglarond was but an hour and a half, just long enough for even the older dwarves of the party to be impatient by the time they glimpsed the Deeping Wall.

Men of the Mark waved them past the Wall with a cheerful greeting, well used to dwarves coming and going by now, and they found that the approach to the caverns was easy enough to spot – a road that could only have been laid by dwarves, broad and even, ran up to Gimli’s front gate, which was marked by a small but intricate fountain.

The Lord of the Glittering Caves himself awaited them there, with what must be several of his most important lieutenants, and of course, the elf.

Glóin had hoped perhaps the elf would be elsewhere, particularly as he had his own realm in the south to look after….

“For goodness’ sake, try to look less like you’re glaring at the elf,” Dwalin hissed at him, quietly enough that the youngest in the party wouldn’t hear. “You know as well as I do the elf has helped with some of the planning, so you might have expected he’d be here.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Glóin muttered.

“I’m probably no fonder of Thranduil than you are, but do you see me glowering at the lad?” Dwalin asked pointedly. “Now is not the time to revisit old grudges.”

Glóin knew perfectly well there was sense in that, so he looked from the gate to his grandsons, letting their excitement at finally arriving lift his mood. He also did not point out the ridiculousness of calling an elf older than the age of every dwarf present combined ‘lad’.

“Welcome, welcome!” Gimli boomed. “Welcome, my lords and lads, to the Glittering Caves! You are in for a treat – we’ve just completed work on the Singing Gallery, so you will be among the first to see it in all its splendour!”

He’d written several times about that particular project, so Glóin knew perfectly well what his son meant by the ‘Singing Gallery’. If it had turned out as Gimli hoped, it would be one of the wonders of the world, the like of which had not been seen since the ancient days when the dwarves of Belegost had helped delve the Thousand Caves. Even Khazad-dûm had nothing to equal it, for fortunate as the realm of Durin had been, it had lacked such splendid natural crystal caverns.

The formal welcome was slightly longer than the bare minimum, for Gimli was not the only one to make a speech. But none of the speakers ran on as Thorin Oakenshield had been wont to do – it was plain to all that Gimli was impatient to show his young nephews around. No one took it amiss when he dismissed his council at the conclusion of the last speech.

Several of the Aglarond dwarves took it on themselves to engage the honor guard, taking them on a tour or showing them to their own rooms as they would, leaving Gimli with just his kin. (And, of course, the elf.)

Fortunately, Legolas showed no inclination to enter into conversation with the older dwarves – perhaps Gimli had warned him – confining himself instead to chattering pleasantly with the two youngsters, who were full of questions about the battle that had led to Gimli’s discovery of Aglarond.

Gimli was of course eager to show off the Singing Gallery.

“The work went on longer than we’d initially planned – always does with this sort of project, I expect,” he told them as they went deeper into the Glittering Caves. “But it was well worth the extra time, for the result is very close to what I initially envisioned when we first glimpsed this particular cavern!”

The tunnel, though high enough for even the elf to walk comfortably without needing to duck his head, subtly narrowed as they approached the gallery, Glóin noted. So when they finally entered, the sudden change was even more impressive. It was only in retrospect that he realized Gimli and his people had also cleverly restricted the use of color in the tunnel, using a palette of muted earth tones to heighten the contrast.

Gimli had given them no verbal warning, not even a flourish, but it was plain by the grin on his face that he was well pleased with their reaction.

“By the Maker, lad!” Dwalin exclaimed. “You’ve done all this in just the few years since returning from Minas Tirith?”

“Oh, not all of it,” Gimli assured them. “The work began almost as soon as we arrived, but it had to be put on hold while I focused on the city gates for King Elessar. This was such delicate work I couldn’t leave anyone else to supervise. I had to be here myself!”

That was obvious. Had he led, Glóin would have trusted no other either – as much because if any error, mischance, or miscalculation was made, it would be better to blame oneself rather than wonder if it might have been prevented had one been there.

The gallery clearly followed the natural contours of the tall, broad cavern it had been carved from, but the work must have been painstaking, each and every careful chip considered in advance to heighten the effect of what the Maker had given them to work with. Sunlight gleamed and glittered, caressing the crystals and bringing out a wealth of brilliant colors.

There were several natural balconies, and a small cascade of water tumbled down to a pool whose waters were a light blue crystal that caught and reflected the light. On either side, natural streams had been coaxed into new channels that led them over crystals here and small falls there, teasing out a burble here, a splash there until the water itself sang more magnificently than even an elven voice could hope to match.

Though the gallery could easily accommodate a great crowd, here and there were areas where small groups might gather, and niches for lamps when the sun went down too far for its light to be bent and reflected to illuminate this subterranean wonder.

“How do you light it by night?” Glóin asked curiously, for he could spot no lamps as yet. That there would not be any was unthinkable. But the knowledge of how the lamps of Khazad-dûm had been made had been lost over the years, and the lamps used in the Mountain wouldn’t produce nearly the same effect as natural light.

“Legolas sent to Imladris, where Lord Elrond was kind enough to have his librarians copy some texts of the ancient days on elven lamps,” Gimli told his father quietly. “We studied them carefully and have been working to create lamps incorporating what we learned. Some will be like sunlight, others starlight or moonlight, and still others are particular colors to show off the crystals and natural gemstones. They are not quite all complete yet, so we have simply been closing it at night. But the Gallery itself is finished, and as soon as the lamps are completed and installed, we will open it to everyone. I have every hope that will be before the new year!”

“This is magnificent,” Dwalin said in a tone of awe. “Lad, you’ve made something worthy of Durin himself!”

“Not just me,” Gimli said modestly. “It has been the work of many hands, just as it will be the work of many hands to continue the expansion of the caves. There is enough to do for me, for the boys, and likely for their children and beyond.”

“Oh, look, Balin!” Óin exclaimed, pointing at another cunning waterway at the opposite end of the gallery. “See, the way the water flows will actually add to the crystal in time!”

“Well spotted, my lad!” Gimli exclaimed proudly. “Come, Legolas and I will take you for a closer look, and I can explain to you how it was done!”

They strode off, leaving Glóin and Dwalin to themselves to explore the gallery. 

“Well, I’d say if you were looking for something to be proud of, the boy’s given you that and then some,” Dwalin said once the younger dwarves were out of earshot.

“Mahal’s beard, yes,” Glóin agreed, still looking about. It seemed like everywhere he looked, his eye lit on some new and wonderful detail.

“In time, it may put the Mountain to shame,” Dwalin added, a certain note of smugness in his voice. “A kingdom any lad can be proud of.”

Glóin turned to look at him in something that was not quite surprise.

“I’ve no grandsons of my own to look to,” Dwalin said quietly. “Nor will I have. Looking after yours will have to do.”

“Borin has said he will not marry?” Glóin asked in some dismay. “I thought he had found someone?”

“He fell in love, right enough,” Dwalin agreed with a sigh. “But she won’t have him.”

Dwalin spread his hands in a ‘what can one do?’ gesture.

It was always a risk. Dwarves were as constant as the stone some supposed they had been made from. Once their heart was given, there it remained, whether their affections were returned or not.

Dwalin’s elder son Fundin had been married, but he had died childless, defending Thorin’s retreat to Erebor with Brand of Dale in the Ring War. It had been honorable, and would no doubt be long remembered. But honor and memory didn’t extend the family line to the next generation as children did.

“Which brings me to something I’ve been thinking on,” Dwalin plowed on. “Provided I can get the wife to consent, I mean to move here, whether Borin comes or not. It seems this is where the line of Farin will continue, and moreover, this is somewhere I might do work that matters more than making trinkets in the workshops of the Mountain.”

Glóin laughed.

“There you go stealing my thunder!” he said, wagging a finger at his older cousin. “I was just about to tell you I am considering staying on, and sending for Signi and Farís to come!”

“Oh, yes, _sending_ for Signi will go well,” Dwalin snorted. “Your wife will have _your_ jewels mounted one of those elaborate necklaces she’s so fond of for taking such a step without consulting her first, never mind for making her travel alone!”

Glóin shrugged. He rather liked Signi’s work, and happened to be wearing one of her pieces.

“I suppose it’s a bit of a risk, but really, I can’t see her not wanting to come once I’ve told her more. The boy’s too modest when he writes for her to have realized just what he’s been up to! As for _alone_, she’d hardly be alone if Farís and her man are with her, not to mention your Gróa, plus whatever guards young Thorin sees fit to send. I suspect he’ll at least double what he sent with us, considering it would be his kins_women_. Signi may even be able to recruit a few others. Gimli can surely use more people, and the sort he wants are exactly the ones finding the Mountain a bit boring these days.”

There wasn’t much call in Erebor for stonecutters at the moment, much less the artisans of stone and crystal that the Glittering Caves required. The main activity there centered more on the forges and fine metal or jewelwork.

“Signi and Gróa travelling together? Mahal and all his assistants preserve us,” Dwalin muttered. “Can you imagine the trouble? Just as well it’s a _short_ journey.”

Glóin could, actually, and couldn’t help the bark of laughter that escaped him, echoing about the niche they were occupying until it sounded like a company of dwarves laughing rather than just one.

“I wonder if the lad did that on purpose,” Dwalin grinned. “Puts me in mind of that echo chamber the young ones were so fond of in the Blue Mountains!”

He sobered.

“Speaking of the lad, what will he say to it, do you think? It’s all well and good for us to say we want to settle here, but will he understand?”

Glóin thought Gimli would likely be thrilled, in point of fact. Until he had been named one of the nine Walkers, he had never spent more than a week or two away from his family. He had nearly always been with one parent or the other, and Farís generally kept a keen eye out for her younger brother. What’s more, he’d generally had his cousins close at hand, first as playmates and later as companions.

“I should think so,” Glóin said slowly. “It’s not as if we can be sure we’ve that many more years left to us, after all. It seems a great shame to spend them exchanging letters and peering at sketches rather than being here to see it with our own eyes. And I for one do not intend to meddle in the rather stressful business of running the realm – I’m only too happy to leave that to him!”

“Yes, much better to just putter about your own workshop, teach your grandsons a thing or two, and appoint ourselves the mead standards commission,” Dwalin agreed, clapping him on the back. “It’s about what I intend myself. And who knows, it seems like there’s a lot of young folk pairing off here. Perhaps there will be a few other young ones in need of a substitute grandfather.”

Given the Maker knew enough would-be grandfathers had fallen in the various battles the dwarves had fought in the past few hundred years, that was more than likely true.

“Hm, yes, now that you mention it, the lad hasn’t said anything about the mead here. Or the beer!”

“We’ll have to ask him about it,” Dwalin nodded. “Make sure he’s living up to proper standards of dwarven hospitality.”

“I should hope so – he did mention putting on a dinner for us.”

“You never know,” Dwalin said, a slightly evil twinkle in his eye. “The elf may be rubbing off on him. We could find ourselves with nothing but salad for supper.”

“You take that slur on my son’s good name back, Dwalin son of Fundin!”

Dwalin laughed.

“Be easy, I’m sure the boy will have a decent spread set for us. I seem to remember him relating with some dismay that he had yet to show the hobbits a good dwarven table.”

“He’s spoken of inviting Meriadoc and Peregrin to visit, that they may be here for the formal opening of the gallery,” Glóin said. “He’d like to invite Samwise as well, but fears that his duties as Mayor won’t allow him to leave the Shire.”

“Ah, well, then our good Master Gardner will just have to content himself with the report of the dinners he missed as carried back by the other two,” Dwalin said with some sympathy. “Perhaps we might send him some smoked pork or cured venison.”

“Best make sure it’s a sizable offering,” Glóin snorted. “Whatever power created hobbits made them quite prolific. The last letter we had from the Shire spoke of the expectation of another young Gardner.”

“My word,” Dwalin marvelled. “That will make what, five?”

“It does seem such large families are more common in the Shire than not,” Glóin observed. “Frodo and Bilbo are the exceptions, not the norm. If I recall correctly, Peregrin has several older sisters.”

Both of them were startled by a hearty guffaw. Gimli had rejoined them without either of them noticing.

“Of all things, I leave you to admire my wonderful gallery and return to find you discussing hobbits and their families!” he laughed. “Just wait until I next write Merry and Pippin.”

“Just wait until we get the resulting letters in the next packet from the Shire, you mean,” Dwalin groaned. “I have made the mistake of asking a hobbit about their relations once before, and I will _not_ be so foolish again.”

“What brought you to be speaking of hobbit families in the first place?” Gimli wondered.

“We were discussing dinner,” Glóin replied.

“Ah, and the thought of food naturally brought them to mind,” Gimli nodded. “I quite understand. I do look forward to proving to my good friends that I did not exaggerate about the hospitality of the dwarves. I wager we can manage to sate even a pair of prosperous gentlehobbits!”

“Bold words, young Gimli, bold words,” Dwalin said, shaking his head at such folly. “I have also seen how hobbits _eat_.”

“Yes, well, as to families – and I do not mean hobbit families,” Glóin cut in, pre-empting what could easily have become a contest of who had seen more hobbit foibles, “we’ve a bit to say on the topic of our own family.”

“Oh?” Gimli asked, focusing on his father at once.

“What would you say to it, lad, if we were to take up residence in your Glittering Caves?” Glóin asked. “Assuming your mother is agreeable, mind.”

Gimli said nothing for a moment, but then his face split in a broad grin.

“I say hurrah!” he exclaimed. “I have been trying to find a way to hint that I should like it if you would, but I had the idea that you were quite happy in Erebor and unlikely to want to uproot yourselves yet again.”

He glanced at Dwalin.

“Will you be coming as well, cousin?” he asked.

“It depends much on whether or not I can persuade Gróa,” Dwalin said. “But for my part, lad, I should rather spend my twilight years here, with my close kin, than in the Mountain as an increasingly useless advisor among the many young Thorin nods his head at before doing exactly as he pleases all the same.”

“He does listen quite attentively,” Gimli assured them.

“No doubt,” Glóin snorted. “It’s just that the only one who can actually argue him into doing something he didn’t want to do in the first place is his wife.”

Gimli looked to be trying not to laugh at that, and had better sense than to argue the point.

“Well, this means dinner will be a good deal more relaxed,” he beamed. “I shan’t be dancing around trying to suggest you consider staying longer or sending for mother, and you shall be able to sample our finest meads knowing I have no ulterior motives.”

Dwalin looked at Glóin approvingly at the mention of mead.

“Have I mentioned lately that you trained the boy well?”

Glóin laughed.

“You have, but you’re welcome to say it again. Now let’s go find that mead!”


End file.
